Misplaced

  Misplaced S. L. Hulen

  This novel is a work of fiction. The characters, incidences, names and places within this book have been totally created by the author’s imagination. Any similarities to persons, living or dead, events or locations are entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 by Sylvia Wright

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U. S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of this author.

  Published by Buena Suerte Productions, LLC

  Phoenix, AZ 85016

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Edition: April 2015

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hulen, S. L.

  Misplaced/S. L. Hulen

  ISBN 978-0-9960588-6-5

  For wonderful Jason, who fanned the kindling of my imagination.

  For Connie, who lit the flame.

  And for my D, who tends it lovingly and steadfastly.

  Chapter One Memphis, 2181 BC

  Today,divinity would be hers.

  Khara watched the procession of clay jugs moving toward the banquet hall on the backs of slaves and heaved a sigh. If only she and Menefra could spend one last afternoon sitting by the garden pond, wiggling their toes in the Nile’s mud as they had done when they were small. But even as babes, she observed, their lives had already been written in stone.

  The ceremony would start with the setting sun. As the eldest daughter of pharaoh, Khara would be crowned co-regent. If she proved capable, the steady hand guiding Egypt for more than seventy years could finally rest, peaceful in the knowledge that she would do more than lead Egypt towards greatness, she would ensure the Line of Kings with her womb. Her father had surely earned this.

  Drinking in the calming perfume of lotus blossoms which had been woven into garlands and hung at all the palace entrances, she turned away from the activity below. What did her misgivings matter when compared to the future of the greatest kingdom in the world?

  “Where are you?” she called out in the silent voice heard only by her twin. Lately, her sister was often missing. When pressed for an explanation, Menefra waved her off with a flick of her delicate wrist. Still, Khara felt as if something inside her had been torn away. She considered that perhaps the weeks of ceaseless preparation had simply put everyone in a foul mood. Nandor, the royal bodyguard, had spent most of the last few days pacing the wide hallways, chanting. Only her father, who had strength enough for a whole kingdom, greeted each day with a smile.

  Khara turned her attention to the cabinet standing alone on the eastern wall. She opened it slowly to find a statuette of Isis, her winged arms spread protectively, staring back at her. She prayed, Daughter of the earth and sky, your servant is willing, but am I truly ready? You know my heart. If I find satisfaction in your eyes, give me the conviction of those who stood at the great balcony before me. Let the light of Egypt shine forever.

  She touched her nose to the statue’s feet and returned the goddess to darkness.

  Restless, she left the wing of family residences and turned right. Her father and Nandor were ahead of her, their pace leisurely as they made their way down the airy vestibule that ran the length of the palace. They were an easy pair to spot; Nandor’s colossal shoulders towered high above the head of any Egyptian, and in contrast to her father’s precisely tucked white linen robe, he wore a leopard skin across one shoulder, a loincloth, and a golden cuff around his ankle.

  Soon the ceremony would begin, yet there was still no sign of her sister. None of your tricks today, Mennie. You gave me your word. Khara paused, resting her forehead against the cool limestone until her lurching stomach quieted.

  Last week Menefra had been intentionally absent from the welcoming feast for the Assyrian king. Until this obvious slight, he had been her intended husband. For some time now she had taken to disappearing for long periods of time without explanation. But it was Menefra’s recent drinking that worried Khara most. Father’s patience was wearing thin.

  A polished bone clasp, fastened at her thigh, kept her linen sheath tight, allowing only tiny steps, which in her preoccupation, she took at an unhurried pace.

  Piri, the household servant who had watched over them from their first breath, maintained that she and Menefra shared a single soul, a common consciousness that had been theirs long before their mother bled to death bringing them into the world. These days old Piri was surely mistaken for Khara could not remember ever feeling more deserted.

  She checked for her sister’s approach and slowed her steps even further. Moments later, Menefra materialized. Breathless, her long black hair was loosely tied back and she was dressed in flowing hues of shadowy greens that matched her extraordinary eyes and olive skin. Khara’s worries evaporated at the sight of her sister’s wild beauty. Khara had always known that her appearance was diminished by a more serious nature and honey-colored, rather than green, eyes.

  “Why didn’t you answer? And where have you been all day?”

  “Where I am and what I do could not matter less since all eyes are on you these days. Here, I’ve brought you something to settle your stomach.” Menefra responded, offering a plump persimmon.

  Khara pushed the fruit away. “I can’t.”

  Her twin threw her arm around Khara’s shoulder, pulling her to one side. “You worry too much,” Menefra admonished, and then smiled and gave her sister’s cheek a hard kiss. Her breath smelled of beer. “At least take a bite or two; you haven’t eaten all day. Do you want to faint during the ceremony?”

  Khara took the fruit while Menefra swept the air in a grand gesture. “Look,” she exclaimed, leaning precariously over the ledge. “See how they all rejoice in your honor.”

  Pulling Menefra back to a safer position, she paused to watch. Egypt’s people had thronged to the capital of Thebes. Jubilant voices mixed with the sounds of grunting oxen and honking geese, obliterating the usual quiet of the palace. Khara grasped Menefra’s hand and kissed it.

  “I can’t bear the thought of father sending you to Assyria. Trust me, I will find a way to discourage this marriage.”

  “Father’s plans no longer interest me,” Menefra stated flatly and looked away. She continued in a wounded voice, “After today, you will greet me like this.” She made a fist and crossed her left arm over her chest—the greeting of a queen.

  “Stop acting like a child. You and I will be as we have always been. Now, let us hurry.”

  “Mark my words; everything will change.” Menefra grabbed the persimmon, taking the last bite before hurling it carelessly into the crowd below. They walked in silence.

  The delegation for the coronation ceremony comprised seven. This did not surprise Khara, since seven was the number most associated with good fortune. Seven planets, seven steps of the Pyramid of Meidum, seven stars of the Big Dipper.

  Luck was something she felt strongly in need of. The High Council had scoffed at her, insisting a woman’s job was to keep the bloodlines pure, nothing else. At his age, however, her father was immune from challenge. He was the living god and, as such, his wishes were not to be tampered with. On this day, when she needed it most, Khara felt no such supremacy.

  Egypt’s most venerable public figures approached from separate hallways which came together at the great balcony. Following centuries of tradition, the sisters took their place among the others in two rows, shielded from view by a heavy gauze curtain. Father would pull it aside to start the ceremony.

  Splendid in layers of gold, with carnelian and blue lapis jewelry over a simple white robe, Pharaoh Pepy II took his place in the center of the first row. Pride brimm
ed in Khara’s heart at the rare sight of him this way. A striped headdress completed his regalia, the two hanging sides of it framing cheekbones grown even more prominent with age. In his arms he carried folds of gold-encrusted fabric.

  “The people of Egypt send you this magnificent gift.” He let the folds drop, revealing a cape of tens of thousands gold beads, which he fastened beneath her chin with a velvety leather strap.

  Hoping that the deep breaths she took would settle her stomach, Khara moved to her place on his right.

  “Where is Unam?” the pharaoh asked impatiently. The place on his left was vacant.

  An unknown, middle-aged priest spoke up, wringing his hands. “A thousand apologies, my Lord! The High Priest remains deep in prayer, ensuring abundant blessings for this day. His holiness sends me in his place.” The anxious cleric bowed, running his hands over his shaved head, looking as though he might cry. Her father did not look pleased, but nodded to affirm that the great honor of standing on pharaoh’s left would be his. Khara overheard Menefra snicker as Nandor, the royal bodyguard, snorted and muttered in his Nubian tongue.

  The vizier, whose long pointed ears and uncompromising eyes reminded Khara of a jackal, looked the part even more today. Dressed in a black robe, he seemed to float to his position at the far right of the second row. Next to him, feet planted and arms crossed, Nandor stood behind his master. Ornamental scars covered much of his bluish-black skin. The line continued with Menefra, who fidgeted constantly, and ended with Egypt’s highest-ranking officer, General Sobo, a short, angry man with the Eye of Horus painted on the leather patch that covered his missing eye. To make matters worse, his good eye was painted to match. The effect was that of a disguise gone frightfully wrong.

  “This is no occasion for weapons,” the general growled at the sight of the scabbard fastened to Nandor’s broad belt. The tooled leather did little to disguise the ominous sickle-shaped sword. Sobo’s smile tightened in condemnation. “Always challenging tradition…”

  “Let it go, Sobo,” pharaoh commanded without turning around. He leaned close to Khara. “A kiss for my girls,” he whispered with a warm smile, “for good luck. After today, you will be one with the gods.” Pausing, he leaned forward to peer through the curtain at the happy faces below, patient as they waited for a glimpse of their god-king. Pharaoh’s voice resonated with pride. “Today, my daughter makes history!”

  Khara smiled and bowed. Her mind whirled. Was he speaking to her, or to someone else? A more capable, prepared daughter of Pharaoh, one who embraced her future? When he left his place in line to find Menefra for her share of affection, Khara stared nervously through the gauze and into the crowd.

  An agonizing cry split the air. Khara turned to see her sister step out of the line with a strange smile on her face, clutching a bloody knife to her chest.

  Something terrible had happened to her father. Khara tried moving toward him, but her legs had turned to stone. Her hand rose instinctively to cover her mouth as she felt the threads of her life unravel in the blink of an eye.

  “My own daught—” he gasped, stumbling backward and falling to the floor with a dull thud, a red stain spreading across his white tunic. As the air left his body, it made a grating sound. Her father reached out for Menefra.

  “The one you never notice is here, Father,” she said softly. Then Menefra held her arms open, fists high in the air, shrieking, “You would marry me off and never think of me again!” Her sister’s voice emptied the air of sweet tranquility. “While her,” her venomous eyes turned on Khara, “you would be made pharaoh. One twin, the living god; the other, nothing but the plaything of a decrepit old man.” She spat on the floor close to where their father lay. “Surely you knew that your corruption of our traditions would carry a price. But it will be I, not Khara, who will put Egypt’s future right.”

  Nandor plucked Khara from where she stood motionless, tucked her safely between him and the others, and looked into the face of his dying pharaoh. His pained expression confirmed that the nightmare was real, yet Khara still could not move. When his pharaoh had taken his last breath, Nandor faced the others and drew his sword.

  She watched her twin’s fingers release the brass knife’s handle, and she heard a hollow clinking sound as it hit the limestone floor. Backing away from her father’s body, Menefra looked dazed.

  Nandor’s voice took on a low, menacing quality as he addressed the men. “You betrayed him. For what? The promises of a jealous child?” His eyes narrowed as he looked at the standing men. He took in the averted glances of three pairs of eyes, the uncomfortable shifting of their bodies. In the silence that lingered, bubbles of dread began to boil in Khara’s chest.

  Nandor’s mouth set hard, his stance widened. He looked over his shoulder, cautioning Khara, “Stay behind me.”

  “Wait!” the vizier pleaded, slipping in the pharaoh’s blood, black cotton robe tangling around his feet as he retreated. His face was the color of incense ash. “I’ll give you anything!”

  “You have repaid the trust of a great man with deceit.” Khara’s teeth began to chatter at the calm of Nandor’s words. A terrifying silence enfolded them before the feral roar as Nandor lunged, sword high. He pivoted in a single, fluid move, sending the vizier’s torso to the floor in a spray of blood. The precise cut followed the graceful arc of the dead man’s golden belt.

  The substitute priest screamed unrestrainedly and fell prostrate. How quickly Nandor relieved him of his head! The force of the blow caused it to sail across the room before thudding against the polished wall and leaving an ugly, dark smear. There was sudden, profound silence.

  Sobo stood calmly, “You won’t outlive me by long, Nubian.” He grinned hatefully. The palace guards are on their way. A far worse fate awaits you,” he snorted, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “I’ve been planning it for years. I always saw you for the heretical brute that you are. Don’t think you ever intimidated me,” Sobo sneered. “It’s easy to conquer unarmed men—”

  Nandor’s set his sword down and pushed. There was hardly a sound as it skated behind him, coming to an abrupt stop just in front of Khara.

  Even without his youth, the general was formidable. He flung his arms around Nandor, using his fists like rocks to pound Nandor’s lower back and face. Sobo’s arms were still flailing when Nandor took hold of his face and lifted him from the floor. Khara heard something snap. The general’s body fell into a mound of legs and arms; only the eye patch remained in place.

  Agile as a cat, Menefra leapt out of reach and picked the knife up from the floor. “You will not save her,” she said softly, almost gently, eyes gleaming at the sight of the oozing entrails. Her words struck Khara mute. “If I fail, there are others…”

  Menefra moved toward Nandor with astonishing deliberation. “My sword,” he ordered Khara, who tried not to look, as she pushed it to him with her foot. He straightened himself and drew the bloody sword in a flamboyant arc, resting it directly in front of Menefra’s chest. She hesitated, eyes fixed on Khara. Seemingly unafraid, Menefra continued, waving the knife still wet with their father’s blood.

  “What have you done?” Khara cried, suddenly awakened from her trance. Searching desperately for the confidante she had always known, she saw that the expression in her sister’s eyes belonged to a stranger. “Why, Mennie? Why?”

  “It’s no use,” Menefra said, turning her gaze from the Nubian. “You must die, sister.”

  Khara held Menefra’s spiteful gaze and, without words, called to her. Just this morning we were laughing together, painting thick lines of kohl across our eyelids. What evil has possessed you? Her last hope was to use the frenzy of her emotions, her denial and outrage, to send them to Menefra. For an instant, the dancing knife froze.

  It was the opportunity Nandor needed. Stepping closer, he grabbed a worn leather pouch from around his waist and shook its silvery contents into her face. She thrust her knife viciously, even as the blinding powder took effect. After s
truggling to free the blade from Nandor’s flesh, she struck again.

  “You will not save her!” Menefra shrieked again and again, lunging with the knife each time.

  Nandor slipped behind her, wrapped his great black arm around her neck while she fought in vain, and held her until her body went limp. When she ceased to struggle, he lay her down gently, away from the blood spreading across the stone floor.

  “How did I not see this?” Nandor shook his head. The rage faded from his face and was replaced by a look that tore Khara’s heart. “Forgive me, Princess Khara. Even now I cannot harm her.”

  He lurched forward, gathered Khara into his arms like a child, and ran for their lives. Her nose filled with the smell of blood as the edges of her sight grew jagged and dark. She felt nauseous, faint. The persimmon, she remembered.

  Chapter Two Khara

  Khara wakened to her sister’s earsplitting, tortured screams. They surged through the palace like floodwater while in the opposite direction, the perfect cadence of the palace guard grew rapidly stronger.

  When she had recovered enough to walk, Nandor set her down. “This way,” he urged before charging in the direction of the approaching guards.

  “But they will see us!”

  Nandor paused for a moment, his expression commanding her not to argue.

  They rushed behind the statue of Hathor, the gentle cow-goddess who detested violence. She was one of many giant deities lining the vast walkway. In the moments before the thump of swords and slapping sandals filled the hallway, Nandor pressed them between the wall and the gilded goddess. He stretched out the golden cape her father had tied around her neck only moments ago and used it to form a screen. Cramped and terrified, still feeling the effects of the persimmon, Khara smelled fear in her guardian’s sweat.

  Camouflaged by tens of thousands of hammered sequins, each one blessed before having been sewn into the heavy linen coronation cape, Khara held her breath, pushing the images of the bodies on the great balcony out of her mind.